e
to make herself appear an interesting sacrifice to motherly tyranny, she
accused that mother relentlessly; she told Madame Taliazuchi that she
was always treated as a child because her mother still wished to appear
young; that she was never allowed to be seen in the saloon in the
evening, lest she might ravish the worshippers and lovers of her mother.
Having gone so far in her confidences, the pitiable daughter of this
light-minded mother went so far as to speak of her mother's adorers.
The last and most dangerous of these, the one she hated most bitterly,
because he came most frequently and occupied most of her mother's
time and thoughts, she declared to be the Count Ranuzi. This was the
beginning of those fearful torments which Marietta Taliazuchi had for
some months endured--tortures which increased with the conviction that
there was truly an understanding between Ranuzi and Madame du Trouffle;
that Ranuzi, under the pretence of being overwhelmed with important
business, refused to pass the evening with her, yet went regularly every
evening to Madame du Trouffle.

Marietta had endured this torture silently; she denied herself the
consolation of complaining to any one; she had the courage, with smiling
lips, to dispute the truth of Camilla's narratives, and to accuse her of
slander; she would have conviction, she longed for proof, and Camilla,
excited by her incredulity, promised to give it.

One day, with a triumphant air, she handed Marietta a little note she
had stolen from her mother's writing-desk. It was a poem, written in
French, in which Ranuzi, with the most submissive love, the most glowing
tenderness, besought the beautiful Louise to allow him to come in the
evening, to kneel at her feet and worship as the faithful worship the
mother of God.

Marietta read the poem several times, and then with quiet composure
returned it to Camilla; but her cheeks were deadly pale, and her lips
trembled so violently, that Camilla asked her kindly if she was not
suffering.

"Yes," she replied, "I suffer, and we will postpone the lesson. I must
go home and go to bed."

But Marietta did not go home. Beside herself, almost senseless with pain
and rage, she wandered about through the streets, meditating, reflecting
how she might revenge herself for this degradation, this faithlessness
of her beloved.

At last she found the means; with firm step, with crimson cheeks, and
a strange smile upon her tightly-compressed lips,